The Blood of Roses (20 page)

She reached up and tenderly brushed aside a heavy lock of raven hair. “I know you love me, Alex. The proof is in the way you look at me and touch me and … and I hear it in your voice even though the words are sometimes strange and forced. You said yourself you weren’t a poet, but if you will recall, I did not fall in love with one. I fell in love with a man who was blunt and honest, caustic and infuriating, and so absolutely sure of himself he puts the rest of the world to shame. That was the man I fell in love with, and that, my lord, is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. If I wanted something else—a philanthropist or a gallant who only wanted to set me on a safe little shelf and protect me from reality, I would have cringed away from you as if you were a carrier of the plague. I certainly never would have defied you to the point where you had no choice but to take me to Scotland with you.”

The dark eyes gleamed. “You say that as if you planned the whole thing.”

“Good God, no,” she exclaimed, then flushed at the profanity. “I did not plan any of it … well … maybe just at the very beginning, when I thought I could use you to make Hamilton jealous.”

“You succeeded,” he said quietly.

She bowed her head to recoup her train of thought. “What I am trying to say is maybe I did not know it consciously at the time, and maybe I fought against it because I knew you represented the end of everything orderly and predictable in my life.” She raised huge, shining eyes to his. “But you also made me come alive, Alexander Cameron. You swept away all of the pretentions and … and the deadness.

“You showed me exactly how empty my life had been without you, how false my values were, how little self-esteem I had. I was Catherine Ashbrooke—rich, spoiled, and selfish, and I had everything yet I had nothing. The Catherine Cameron who spent two wonderful days locked in a damp stone cottage on the edge of a Highland moor had nothing, yet it felt as if the whole world was spread out before us. I could have stayed there with you, quite happily, for the rest of my life. Because we shared, Alex. We shared the truth, the pain, the reality. You may have a dangerous and unpredictable temperament; you are certainly stubborn and proud, and make me want to scream sometimes just because you are who and what you are. But you are also honest to a fault, direct, loyal, gentle, and compassionate— and I do not think you would want a wife who was afraid to be all of those things herself.”

Alex remained silent for so long, Catherine imagined she could hear the actual voices warring back and forth within his conscience. If she was wrong, if he only wanted a pretty parlor dressing and a soft and willing body in his bed then she had lost him. If he patted her on the head and smiled his way through a heart-warming accolade, then she might as well have lost him.

His hands were the first thing that moved. They slid up from where they had been resting on her shoulders and gently, thoughtfully cradled her face between them. His gaze was somber and guarded, as unreadable as always, yet she thought she saw a glimmer of self-effacing humor as he angled his mouth down over hers. The kiss had none of the passion or urgency as those he had caressed her with during the night. Rather, it was a simple, basic affirmation of his love.

“Are you absolutely certain there isn’t Scots blood in you somewhere?” he murmured. “You show remarkable skill with a verbal blade.”

Catherine bit down on her lip and waited.

“You are right, of course,” he admitted with a sigh. “I wasn’t sure what to do with you once I had you. I wasn’t sure if you had just been carried along in something new and adventurous, or if you could actually love me enough to turn your back willingly on all of this. I sent you out of Scotland for your own safety, make no mistake about that. But I guess … in a way, I was also testing you. Testing myself as well.”

“And?”

“And”—he smoothed his thumbs lightly along the curve of her cheeks—“I think I should consider myself a lucky bastard to have a wife who knows my faults and isn’t afraid to stand up to me, rather than one who ignores my faults and learns to live with them. Mind you”—a quick downstroke brought both thumbs to rest against her parted lips—“I would naturally expect the same rights and privileges.”

“Naturally,” she whispered.

“I know I have not been much of a husband to you in the past few months, and I may not make much of a domesticated creature in the years ahead … but, by God,” he mused, “I’d like to try. I’d like to grow old with you. In fact, I want to grow old and portly and contented—just like my brother. I always thought Donald’s love for Maura was his one great weakness, but I can see now it is his strength.”

Catherine tried to match his smile, but the quivering in her chin and the sudden scalding of tears in her eyes did not permit much success. Alex gathered her close and wrapped warm, wonderful arms around her, and for a few moments, that was enough.

“Actually … there was another reason why I sent you out of Scotland,” he said huskily, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair.

“Another reason?”

“Mmmm. If I’d taken you back to Achnacarry, you would still be there and I would be here, and … if the prince has his way, a month from now he’ll be marching through the gates of London and we would have been that much farther apart.” His teeth flashed a smile and his hands stroked down through the tousle of her hair to settle over the rounded softness of her buttocks. “Rather clever of me to have planned to have you here, wasn’t it?”

“Very clever,” she murmured dryly. “And I don’t believe a word of it.”

Melting into the sensation of his roving lips, she allowed herself to be gently guided deeper beneath the warm cocoon of blankets, to be loved and caressed by his hands, his lips, his superbly honed body. And for a time, she almost forgot there was a war going on outside their isolated sanctuary of happiness. She almost forgot that, in a few hours, he would be gone again and the fear would begin its process of erosion all over again.

“Alex?”

“Mmmm?”

“Are you asleep?”

He stirred and she could feel the lingering dampness that still clung to his chest and shoulders.

“Sleep?” he asked on a yawn. “What’s that?”

“I’m sorry,” she said guiltily. “Forget I said anything.”

He took a deep breath and his body tautened through a stretch that brought his head sliding up from its resting place on her belly. He snuggled into the crook of her shoulder, his arms enfolding her more securely, a long leg nestling more intimately between hers. In a few moments his breathing was deep and even, his body completely relaxed.

“Alex?”

“… mmm …?”

“Are you really going to sleep?”

The dark eyes opened slowly. “Apparently not. Why?”

“I have been thinking about what you said—about me being here and you being in London. Is it true? Is Charles Stuart really planning to march his army all the way to London?”

Alex knuckled the weariness from his eyes and stretched again. “I don’t know. He has his army and his intentions aimed that way.”

“Can he do it? Can he reach London?”

“Well, no one thought he could get this far, including some of his closest advisors, but he has.”

A very neat way to avoid answering the question, she thought. “Father says the Young Pretender will have to meet and destroy the king’s army before he advances much further.”

“He says that, does he?”

“And more besides. He says that even if the prince does reach London, he will never hold the city against the guns of the Royal Navy. He says Admiral Vernon will never serve under a Stuart monarchy, and with five hundred ships under his command, he will have the firepower to prove his point.”

“Your father is very perceptive. Has he any insights as to how the government will react?”

“He is certain Parliament would collapse and all but certain the nobility would band together and form their own army to march against the Stuarts.”

“He is talking civil war,” Alex remarked calmly.

“And then there is the church. Canterbury will never tolerate a return of the papacy to England, and there are simply not enough Catholics in the country strong enough to wrest the power away from the Anglican bishops.”

“For someone who professes to dislike politics and talk of war, you seem remarkably well informed.”

“I have eyes and ears.”

“So you do,” he mused, gazing thoughtfully at both. “Beautiful eyes and perfectly charming ears.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” she reminded him firmly.

The dark eyes flicked down to the naked opulence of her breasts. “The mood is hardly what you might call conducive to talk of armies and political strategies.”

“Nor is it, evidently, very fertile for truth and simple honesty … or is this how you mean to share your thoughts with me: by changing the subject when it pleases you, or avoiding unpleasant topics when the mood is not upon you?”

The black lashes lifted slowly and, after a careful scrutiny of the clear, direct expression on her face, he sighed and pushed himself higher on the pillows, propping them comfortably behind his back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very well. If it is the truth you want, it is the truth you shall have. Ask me whatever you want to know.”

Catherine noted the prick of irritation in his voice but softened her own enough to undermine it. “Is it true? Will the prince march on to London?”

“If the decision is his to make: yes.”

“Is his army strong enough to meet and defeat King George’s troops?”

“If Cumberland’s ships sink in the Channel and the Dutch have a change of heart, I’d give us an even chance. In spirit, I would even go so far as to say our Highlanders could win hell from the devil, if they set their minds to it.”

“In spirit? Are you saying they are lacking elsewhere?”

“The English don’t seem to think so. Not after General Cope was so obliging at Prestonpans by leaving behind his artillery, his stores and equipment.”

Catherine’s attention was distracted briefly to the fresh scar above her husband’s left ear. He hadn’t mentioned the wound, or how he had earned it, and she had not asked, but she did not have to be a doctor to see how close he had come to losing his ear, his eye, even his life.

Unwittingly, her eyes traveled higher to the opposite temple, to the thin white furrow of scar tissue that marked the cut Hamilton Garner’s sword had dealt him in the duel. He bore another on his thigh from that same encounter, and she had a sudden, clear image of how he had looked standing in the parlor, fresh from the duel, the sweat still glistening in his hair, the blood still leaking over the top of his tall black boots as he repeated his marriage vows. He had worn the same impenetrable mask over his features then as he did now, and, wary of his mastery over words as well as emotions, Catherine proceeded cautiously.

“Father credited the loss at Prestonpans to inexperience. Even Uncle Lawrence admitted General Cope was ill-supported and the troops were mainly new recruits, few of whom had seen battle before.”

“True enough,” Alexander agreed. “But the bulk of the prince’s army consisted then, and now, of farmers and shepherds who had never seen a musket before Prestonpans, much less faced or fired one. Cope’s troops, on the other hand, even though they lacked the seasoning, were trained and drilled, well equipped with not only muskets and shot but enough artillery to pepper the countryside full of holes.”

“It was also said your army took them by complete surprise.”

“Cope had the advantage of choosing the field. He had his back to the sea, a wide open plain on either flank, and a morass of filthy swampland guarding his front door. A schoolboy with a handful of stones should have been able to defend that position. Cope deserved to be humiliated, and he was.”

He was testing her desire to learn the truth, Catherine suspected. Telling her something … but what?

“Cope had barely three thousand men,” she said slowly. “The prince reportedly had four times that number.”

“Scraping the barrel for excuses, are we?” A black brow arched in wry amusement. “Rather creatively too. Four times as many, you say? The last I heard it was only three.”

Thrust and counterthrust.

“You said if it was the prince’s decision to make, there would be no question of marching against London. Does that mean there are those among you who might prefer another strategy?”

“Some of the clan chiefs have been against the idea of invasion from the outset,” Alex admitted candidly. “Others were willing enough to make the attempt, providing there was some show of support from the English Jacobites.”

“And? Has there been?”

“Not so that you’d notice,” he said dryly.

“Does that mean the prince is losing support from within his own ranks?”

“Even a blind man knows when to turn away from a stone wall.”

“A stone wall? Must you speak in riddles?”

Alex sighed. “A stone wall—figuratively speaking. In reality, what the chiefs are beginning to see, and quite clearly, is an army of Highland sheep farmers marching boldly along a main road of a country that has not had an army invade this deeply into its heart since the days of William the Conqueror. On their left flank they see Marshal Wade lurking with his army of five thousand men, all of whom would dearly love to avenge their fallen comrades at Prestonpans but who are wary of a similar fate befalling them should they act in too much haste. On the right flank is Sir John Ligonier’s army of seven thousand, equally eager, equally prudent. And now we hear the news that King George’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, is speeding back across the Channel with several thousand well-blooded veterans who are most perturbed at having to abandon their jolly little war in Flanders just to deal with a horde of skirted insurgents at home.